


deuteronomy 24:16

by besselfcn



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/M, Manipulation, Sexual Coercion, forced impregnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 17:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: She learns what they like--Arthur’s bashful, John’s all eager, Javier’s sweet, Bill seems he’s got something to prove. The others don’t seem interested in her, much; got their own women or their own problems.Except Dutch.He looks at her with a hunger makes her skin crawl, but he ain’t never touched her.Sometimes she wonders what it is he’s waitin’ for.





	deuteronomy 24:16

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this fic is about Dutch being a terrible and manipulative person, and it _is_ as bad as the tags make it seem! 
> 
> I am both sincerely sorry and sincerely not sorry that this seems to be the first work in the Abigail/Dutch tag.

There ain’t too many rules in Dutch’s gang. Take a bath when you stink. Keep the horses outside the camp. And earn your keep, however you can.

Abigail earns hers the best way she knows how. And it ain’t bad really. The boys are gentler with her here than the ones out there. They gotta look her in the eye the next day, after all.

It ain’t all she does. She does the washing and gathers firewood and helps set up the tents for the men when it’s time. But mostly she smiles real pretty for them, and they smile right back.

She learns what they like--Arthur’s bashful, John’s all eager, Javier’s sweet, Bill seems he’s got something to prove. The others don’t seem interested in her, much; got their own women or their own problems.

Except Dutch.

He looks at her with a hunger makes her skin crawl, but he ain’t never touched her.

Sometimes she wonders what it is he’s waitin’ for.

*

Then, one day, she stops wonderin’.

Boys come back hooting and hollering about some score they got, made three hundred dollars each and that was after the camp’s share. Susan’s breaking out drinks before they’ve even hitched up their horses, earns herself a fat kiss on the cheek by an adrenaline-fueled, bloodsoaked Arthur Morgan. She shoves him away and shoves a bottle into his hand, calls out for Karen to get a proper fire started, find the good whiskey.

“We are _ all _ celebrating tonight!” Dutch enunciates, and he tosses bottles out to each of them in turn. Abigail catches hers and feels the infectious laughter bubbling in her chest, spreading down through her fingertips.

“Drink, and be merry, my boys and girls,” Dutch says. “Tonight, we showed those rich, no-good, country-bumpkin bastards--”

“Here we go,” Arthur murmurs in her ear, and Abigail laughs and drinks.

She drinks, and drinks, and drinks. Every time her bottle empties she seems to find another in her hand, and the fire’s still going and the shouts of the boys’ off-key sing-song still reverberate through the camp, so she stays til her head feels light and the ground underneath her starts to tilt over, just a little bit.

“”m goin’ to bed,” she announces, just to Karen, sitting next to her.

“Night,” Karen shrugs. She’s already wandering closer to the boys, joining them in their old sailors tune.

Abigail walks to her tent--wobbles on a couple of steps, throws her arms out as if she’s on a tightrope and laughs into the night sky. She feels euphoric, like she’s the one who shot up a casino, stole fistfulls of cash from the lockbox out back. Way Hosea tells the tale, she feels she might as well have.

She shrugs off her outer clothes and crawls into her bedroll, giggling as she rolls her head back and forth and feels the world spin inside it.

Couple minutes later, the tent flap opens again.

“Thought you was staying with the boys a while long--oh.”

It ain’t Karen; it’s Dutch, already tying the tent back together behind him. Abigail sits up on her elbows and pinches her brows together, with effort.

“Whaddya want? I’m sleeping,” she says.

It’s dark in the tent, but the fire ain’t so far that she can’t see at all. His mouth curves into a smile as he crouches down next to her, so they’re almost level, but him still looming up above.

“You have been such a valuable addition to this camp, Miss Roberts.”

He’s drunk too. She can hear it in his voice, the little slur of alcohol. Not as drunk as she is--she couldn’t kneel over like that without falling over, she can tell just from how her head’s pounding just leaning up to look at him. It’s enough she lays back down, just keeps her head turned at him while she talks.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m grateful being here, really.”

He laughs, without moving his lips.

His hand traces down her hips.

“Such a smart, beautiful girl,” he murmurs. “You have made the boys so happy. I don’t think they could’ve performed half as well as they did tonight, had you not been here to keep them company some of our lonelier days.”

His palm spreads out over her thigh; finally, she works up the sense to grab at his wrist.

“Hey,” she snaps. “I don’t do this drunk.”

But he doesn’t withdraw. He squeezes. She squirms under his grasp, and hears him shush her like he shushes The Count.

“Abigail,” he says, “who is the one who provided for you all that fine brandy and beer that you got yourself so drunk on?”

Her heart seizes with a sudden understanding.

She knows what Arthur means now when he calls Dutch an old predator. She looks into his eyes and she sees some ancient cold that runs deep in his bones, something that cannot be reasoned with. She looks at his hand up against her thigh, covered in sharp, audacious rings, and she imagines each one of them dragging ‘cross her cheekbones.

“You did,” she says, because he wants her to say it.

“I did, didn’t I,” he smiles. He doesn’t grip so hard anymore; his hand spreads out over the inside of her thigh, instead. “And who has been providing you a tent to sleep in, and food in your belly, and men for you to warm your bed?”

Abigail breathes. Her hands feel numb. “You, Dutch.”

“That’s right,” he coos. “And all I want in return is just a moment of your company. Is that so much to ask?”

Outside, the fire crackles. She hears someone howl with laughter.

“No, Dutch,” she breathes.

He smiles. “Open your legs, Miss Roberts.”

She does.

Her knees fall apart; she takes her hands away from his. He moves her how he likes, unbuttoning her underclothes, running his hands up her sides. She pushes into it. Done it a hundred times. AIn’t different. She still feels so lightheaded; every time she tries to move faster than he’s guiding her, her head spins and she has to fall back again. Let him pull her clothes off carefully, set them aside next to her, til she’s naked as a babe. And him still in all his clothes, his cock just tenting the front of his pants.

“Such a beautiful sight,” Dutch says, with reverie, and then he slides his fingers into her.

It shouldn’t make her gasp, but it does--the suddenness of it, the warmth. Her hands push at the ground and she turns her head, but there goes the world again, swirling and spinning off-balance as she moves with it.

“Oh, _ Abigail_,” Dutch groans, “so many men you’ve let defile you and yet you are still tight as a little maiden. What an extraordinary girl you are.”

She doesn’t know if he wants her to talk; she doesn’t know if she can. Everything feels stuck. Her hands, her mouth, her head.

“Look at me, Miss Roberts,” he says, and it isn’t a request, it is a _ demand_, and with the greatest effort she turns her head to look him in the eye as he takes out his cock and fucks into her.

She almost cries out in pain but she clamps a hand over her own mouth and Dutch laughs for it, he _ laughs _, all low in his chest, and she wants to be sick but he’s holding her down, his hand on her wrist, his pace slow but steadily building until he’s rocking her body with every thrust.

She lets herself drift away somewhere else. Lets him do what it is he wants, whatever company he came here to seek out. Her eyes trace out the sliver of sky she can see through the tent flap, and she focuses on the pinprick stars out there, and almost smiles at the thought of how much more beautiful they are here than in the city.

Dutch’s pace shifts suddenly, and the fear that had settled as useless in her chest suddenly roars right up again. The other boys have the decent sense to use condoms, or know well enough to spill somewhere else, but she can tell he’s nearing the edge and he doesn’t seem to have any sense of slowing down.

“Stop,” she says, and tries to push at him, any way she can. “Don’t--not inside, on my stomach, please.”

He doesn’t stop. Like he didn’t hear her.

“Dutch,” she begs, and she hits at him then, her palms useless against his chest. “Dutch, stop, you--”

His fingers shove deep into her mouth. She gags, her tongue pressed down, his other hand on her hip, and she wants to kick her legs and wants to bite down around his hands but all her brain will tell her is _ you ain’t had this many meals in a row since you were a baby _ and her body goes limp and she lets her jaw hang open, uselessly, and tears spill over the corner of her eyes as he comes buried inside her.

Everything’s silent. Or maybe it’s the ringing in her ears.

He breathes a few times, heavy, and then withdraws his fingers from her mouth. Wipes them on a handkerchief. Stands up, and cleans himself with the same before tucking himself back into his pants.

“Thank you, Abigail,” he says.

When he leaves, he seals the tent tight up behind him.

She opens her mouth like she’s going to scream, but she slowly slides it shut again.

Something crystallizes in her, then. With her head pounding and Dutch’s come seeping down the inside of her thighs. The party rages on outside, and the air is cold, and her throat feels full, and she is not safe. She is not safe. She does not know how many times she will learn this lesson--in her own family’s home, in the walls of a brothel house, in the streets of New Hanover. Again, underneath Dutch van der Linde. She can be promised safety but it cannot be given to her. It will not be given to her. She has to take it.

*

Two weeks later, she misses her cycle.

In the end, the choice she makes is easy. She only needs to think for a moment about what it would be like, a life lived forever as a piece of Dutch.

She goes to John Marston, and she smiles real pretty, and he smiles right back.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me places @besselfcn.


End file.
